


Falling Down

by teacupsandspoons



Series: Being a Mind, Being a Body [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Eating Disorders, Family Death, Mental Illness, past drug abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-24 20:59:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19731670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacupsandspoons/pseuds/teacupsandspoons
Summary: Sherlock has come a long way in the past few years, it almost feels like he never had an eating disorder in the first place. But some unexpected news, brings back old habits, and staying well is harder than he hoped.





	1. Chapter 1

This is a sequel to Disappearing Act, and will make much more sense if you read that first. But if you don't want to the summary is this. Sherlock has an eating disorder, that while dormant for many years, has come back and brings Sherlock to the brink of death. He goes to The Foundation Stone House to recover, makes a friend named Alexandra (Alex), is preyed upon by a spy, and ultimately recovers and returns home. 


	2. Blip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go. First time posting on AO3 for a while. This sequel to Disappearing Act has been marinating for a while. Hope you like it. Feel free to let me know about any spelling or grammar mistakes.

The day had begun like any other, John and Sherlock shared breakfast as Sherlock looked over old case files and John checked the email and blog for anything interesting. They were both hoping that Lestrade would call and give them something juicy, but it seemed like London was having a dry spell in terms of crime. The heat of August meant that no one felt like doing much of anything other than lying around and trying to keep cool. Well no one but Sherlock, who was going crazy with nothing to do, even as he sat at the breakfast table wearing nothing but his pants and dripping with sweat. John had no doubt the man would don his full suit and brave the heat if the opportunity arose. 

“This might be interesting,” John said, “A missing chest of family heirlooms, nothing of much monetary value, only sentimental, large and heavy enough not to just get lost. No motive in sight.”

“Ugh barely a four, but for lack of anything better I suppose it will have to do. I’ll need to shower before I get dressed though.” Sherlock said, putting down his files with a sigh, and finishing up his last bite of toast. 

John also sighed, knowing that while he himself wouldn’t wear a full suit, he should wear a button down and long pants to appear professional, perhaps he could get away with a short sleeved shirt. As John finished his breakfast he could hear Sherlock humming in the shower, composing probably. John smiled, after the first symphony the detective had composed at The Foundation Stone House, he had been composing prolifically in the last few years. When he wasn’t playing violin he could often be heard humming absentmindedly. 

John was happy, and Sherlock was happy… or something like that. Their lives looked all together different from when they had first started to live together, and now shouting fights and damage to property were rare in 221B. Most days John didn’t even think about how much things had changed, it was just the new normal. But today he did think about it. Seeing Sherlock eating a healthy breakfast, all but naked, was a somewhat humorous sight, but the scars that still covered his arms and torso reminded John of how far they had come. Now the scars were a pale silvery purple, nearly white, and lighter than the rest of Sherlock’s skin. The detective had long ago become comfortable letting his scars show at home, and acted as though they did not bother him at all, or that they did not even exist, but John knew better. The detective was careful to keep them covered when he went out of the flat for business or otherwise, even on sweltering days like today. Whether he did this because he felt self conscious, or just to avoid the questions and assumptions of clients and colleagues, John did not know.

The detective was no longer as cold and closed off, but his recovery hadn’t changed him into a different person, he was still unlikely to talk to John about his feelings, though sometimes would if prompted. John knew Sherlock went through things in which John was not to be included. On the rare occasions that Sherlock would wake the doctor in the middle of the night so that he could get an Ativan, John knew that the reason for his visit was not to be the topic of breakfast conversation. And that was fine, and normal! John wasn’t the type to share his deepest emotions willy nilly either. He didn’t worry much, Sherlock hardly ever came to him with that haunted look on his face, and it was clear by his day to day behavior that he was doing well. He took his meds, he followed his meal plan, and things ran smoothly. Well smoothly between cases when the drama the intensity of the chase that could still lead Sherlock into recklessness, but there were some things you can try to change about a person and some things you just have to accept.

John’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the shower being turned off and Sherlock bounding down the hall to his bedroom. Knowing this was his que, John dumped his plates in the sink and went to get dressed himself. When he returned from the living room, Sherlock was already dressed and waiting for him on the couch. “Ready?” He said jumping up, but before John could respond Sherlock’s phone began to ring. Sherlock looked excited as he dug his phone out of his pocket, hoping for a more interesting offer from Lestrade. However, when he saw his phone screen he frowned, and seemed to debate whether he should accept the call, before putting on a resigned face and answering in an unenthusiastic voice. 

“Hello?” He stood up straighter, looking surprised and slightly confused. “Yes I am. What is this about?” John watched as suddenly Sherlock’s body become rigid and his grip on the phone tightened. “... Oh. I see… how did it… yes of course… and when will that be… alright...yes. Thank you for letting me know.” Sherlock stood unmoving with the phone to his ear for a moment. 

“What was that about,” John asked concerned. 

“It was nothing, if you will just excuse me for a minute,” Sherlock said blankly before walking back to his bedroom. 

“Sherlock?” John called, starting to walk after him. 

“I can tell you about it after the case, but for now I need to take care of a few things before we head out.” The detective said closing the door to his room, stranding John out in the hallway. 

After a minute or two John knocked on the door. “Sherlock?” He said gently pushing the door open. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John looked about confusedly before hearing the distinctive sound of gagging and vomit hitting porcelain coming from the direction of Sherlock’s en suite bathroom. John closed his eyes, before turning and leaving Sherlock’s room. _Fuck._

\----

John was sitting quietly on the couch when Sherlock returned about twenty minutes later. He had changed his shirt, and he was a shade paler than usual. The force of vomiting had burst a capillary under his right eye, and the finest twisting thread of red could be seen under his lashes. The corners of his mouth were also slightly raw. John winced, he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, if he hadn’t known to look, he would never have noticed these little tells. Had this happened before without him even knowing it?

Sherlock was talking as soon as he entered the living room, still doing up his tie. “Sorry for the delay, we can go now, you should get it touch with the client to inform them that we are coming-”

“Sherlock…” John interrupted in a quiet voice. Sherlock tensed microscopically hearing the miserable tone. “John,” He replied curtly, “Now if you ready we can be on our way.”

“Sherlock wait, what's going on?”

“Nothing that can’t wait, we can talk about it after the case.”

“Sherlock I heard you-” Sherlock cut him off before he could finish, saying firmly, “We can talk after the case or not at all. Now I have work to do. Come if you like, but don’t if you are going to mope and be distracting.” With that the detective descended the stairs, and John, with a sigh, followed suit. If Sherlock wanted to pretend that everything was fine for a day, John could too. 

There was a heavy silence in the cab. Though a stranger would not have been able to spot the tension in either of them, they could see it in each other. The tight movement of the jaw, a firm grip on the knee, but once the case started things regained some normalcy. John was perhaps a bit quieter and distant as he watched Sherlock solve the case brilliantly, and Sherlock was perhaps less pleased with his clever deductions than he was during his last case, but only perhaps. 

When they returned to the flat, Sherlock went straight to his room. John resolved to give him half an hour before trying to engage him in conversation. Whatever it was, he could give Sherlock a little more time before trying to pry it out of him. 

When a half hour came and went, John made tea as a peace offering. He tapped the detectives’ door with his elbow, a mug in each hand. “Sherlock? I’ve made you a cuppa.” John heard some shifting about in the room before Sherlock came to the door. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said taking a mug.

“Living room?” John inquired with a tilt of his head, trying to sound nonchalant. 

“Sure.” The detective acquiesced. 

When they were settled into their chairs, and the quiet could no longer be attributed to the sipping of tea, John broke the silence. “So who was it that called you this morning?” He said, hoping it was a neutral enough question.

“It was my mother’s lawyer. He called on her line, so I was surprised when it wasn’t her who was calling... She died last night.”

“Christ, what happened? Was it sudden?” 

“Yes and no, she had a heart attack, but she has had two before, so I suppose one could expect a fatal one would follow.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that Sherlock.”

“The funeral is next Friday.”

“And what about you?”

“Well I'm not sure if I'm going to go, if that is what you mean. She will hardly appreciate it now, and my father passed years ago, which leaves her friends who don’t care for me and Mycroft who knows how I am. He has his own feelings about sentiment, but he will go out of propriety of course.”

“What? I mean I guess that’s your choice, but you know that's not what I was asking.” 

“I’m fine.” Sherlock responded quickly. John wished the detective would let him in.

“I heard you vomiting this morning.” 

Sherlock looked at his lap grimly. He suspected as much but had hoped he had been wrong. “You shouldn’t have been in my room.”

“I knocked, and you didn’t answer, and that is besides the point, the point is you were purging.”

Sherlock just looked tired and resigned, but John had expected more drama. Sherlock sighed before gazing back at John. “Look John, I was shocked, it’s like I short circuited. But I’m going to be fine, this has happened a few times before, but I got right back on track. It’s a blip not a full blown relapse.” 

“This has happened before? When?” John demanded, he was getting riled up. Remain calm. 

“Oh I don’t know. And I don’t want to go into the details of it with you.” Sherlock said throwing his hands up in exasperation. 

“How many times since Foundation Stone?” 

“Six times. In _four years_. And it was always a one off, just like this time!”

John scrubbed his hands over his face. He wasn’t sure if the news of Sherlock's past “blips” was more reassuring or concerning. “Okay.” He said wearily. He was going to let it go, he would still be on the lookout, but he wasn’t going to push this further. “Okay.” Sherlock confirmed looking relieved before getting up and walking into the kitchen. “I’m going to go to bed now, I know it's early but I’m tired.” He said opening a cupboard. 

“But we haven’t had dinner yet.” John responded. Sherlock grabbed a nutritional shake and held it up for John to see before retreating to his room.


	3. Returning

Sherlock closed his door.  _ This was not going to become a big deal _ he told himself, even as he looked at his shake in defeat. It wasn’t a real dinner, but he wasn’t sure if he could keep solid food down. Why was he reacting like this? He hadn't been close to his mother in years, and their relationship was never that close to begin with. She wasn’t affectionate, she was always disappointed in him, yadda yadda. But he was over that. He had left that in the past so why was he feeling like this _ now _ . It wasn’t that he felt sad. 

He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Maybe he was angry, exactly why he couldn’t pinpoint, it was too amorphous. It settled hot and heavy into his stomach, and sat there even as he distracted himself with case files. His body thrummed with it. He looked over to his shake sitting on his bedside table, grabbed it, chugged it and threw the empty bottle at the wall as hard as he could. It only made a soft unsatisfying thunk before falling to the floor. What was he trying to prove to himself anyway? That he could drink his fucking shake?  _ Big deal _ , he drank one every single day. Why did it feel different today? It was so frustrating, he hadn’t even thought about his mother in months. 

Eventually he couldn’t sit still anymore, and left his room. It was late and the living room was empty, John was probably asleep. Sherlock slipped on his shoes and walked out into the summer night. He paced the streets frustrated and disconcerted at his lack of understanding of his own emotions. He only stopped his wondering when the sky started to become light. He headed home, arriving just as the sun cleared the horizon. 

\----

John awoke to the sound of the front door closing. It was barely six, where could Sherlock be going so early? When he went downstairs however he saw the detectives’ shoes were still by the door. After knocking lightly he peeked into Sherlock's room and saw the detective curled on his bed in the same clothes he had been wearing the night before body turned away from the door. John groaned fearing that the man had spent the night in a drug den, or something else harmful or unsavory. The exasperated “What?” that came from the bed surprised him. He had assumed Sherlock was asleep since he hadn’t responded to the knock. John cleared his throat.

“Where were you?” No point beating around the bush. 

“No business of yours.” The detective snapped making no motion to get up or even face John. 

“Did you get high?” John asked.

“No.” Sherlock replied flatly. 

“Then what were you doing-”

“Please leave me alone.” Sherlock growled cutting John off. 

“Fine. We can talk later.” John said curtly before closing the door, and heading to the kitchen. 

\----

After the door clicked closed Sherlock groaned rolling onto his back. He had hoped John would not have noticed his absence, but clearly the doctor was more observant that Sherlock gave him credit for. John wasn’t going to let this go. Sherlock just needed some time. Why couldn’t John just give him some space? Yes, Sherlock had purged, but he had just found out his mother had died, surely John could understand his response to a shock like that. 

Since Sherlock’s stay at the Foundation Stone House, John had been fairly good about respecting Sherlock’s desire for privacy. He understood that just because Sherlock had relied upon him in a time of desperate need did not mean that he would now share every one of his thoughts and feelings. When Sherlock asked for an Ativan, John would give him one, and wouldn’t interrogate him about why he needed it. Why couldn’t he let Sherlock be now. The detective supposed that perhaps John’s reaction was due to the physical nature of his response. As long as Sherlock’s distress was purely mental, John could allow Sherlock to handle it on his own, but as soon as Sherlock did something physically harmful, the doctor could not help but stick his nose in. It was stupid for him to behave this way, in Sherlock’s opinion, because the physical action was not a useful marker on the continuum of distress. He could be more distressed than he was currently without purging. 

So why did he purge? The detective asked himself. Why couldn’t he eat a real dinner? So his mother had died. So what? He had barely known the woman for more than 10 years. He had loved her as a child of course, but he hadn’t even thought about her in ages. Why should he care that she had died. Would she have cared if he had? Well, probably. But she would have mourned her idea of him, not who he really was. Mourned the hope that one day he would become an heir suitable enough to represent the family, rather than a strange embarrassment. She had never liked him very much. Even when he was young. 

\----

Sherlock was sitting in his mothers dressing room. He was five, and trying desperately to be quiet and still as his mother applied her makeup. “You see Sherlock,” she said lifting her brow to apply mascara, “The first thing anyone knows about you is how you look. Before you even have the chance to introduce yourself they have made their assumptions about who you are based on your appearance. That’s why you must be presentable, otherwise people will look down on you, and by extension me and our whole family.” She paused to apply her lipstick. “You want to be respected, don’t you Sherlock?”

“Yes mummy.” He replied obediently. He wasn’t really sure what she meant by this. To him respect meant holding his tongue, only speaking when spoken to, not getting upset. Was she asking if he wanted others not to talk to him? Not tell them what they were thinking? He didn’t think so, but he knew there was a script this conversation was meant to follow. 

“Good. So now you know why you shouldn’t get your clothes dirty playing out in the yard.”

“Yes mummy.”

She gave herself one more appraising look in the mirror, before leaving the room, saying “Don’t let it happen again Sherlock.” She closed the door and locked it behind her. He knew that he wouldn’t be allowed out again until all of the guests had left, which given that they were grown ups, meant hours after dinner. 


	4. Coping

Sherlock left his room around noon, he had not slept. But he had received a text from Lestrade regarding a case which would be the perfect excuse to avoid John’s prying questions. He walked into the kitchen fully dressed in his suit to find John eating lunch. John had left food on the stove for Sherlock, but Sherlock just grabbed shake. He was on a case after all. John had watched him with a disapproving look on his face. “Don’t give me that look John,” Sherlock said cooly, “We have a case, finish up quickly or I will leave without you.”

John sighed. He knew something was up with Sherlock, that he was struggling with his mother’s death and likely using unhealthy coping mechanisms. But Sherlock was stubborn and if he didn’t want to let John in, pushing wouldn’t be too productive. Not feeling like starting a row, John accepted Sherlock's excuse that he was on a case. John hoped that it was just a case. But the fact that Sherlock had just had a shake for dinner the night before, and hadn’t eaten any breakfast or snacks as far as John could tell, made him wary, and frustrated. He only wanted honesty, and trust. But it wasn’t worth forcing it, not yet at least. So he finished up his sandwich and dressed quickly lest he be left behind. 

Sherlock finished the case in less than 4 hours. That night he ate dinner without incident, it wasn’t even difficult. Afterwards he poured over his experiment on body bag residues. He felt normal, he was glad his unease and confusion over his mother’s death had dissipated. When he went to bed that evening, however, it became clear his relief had been premature.

\----

At age nine, Sherlock sat at the dinner table with his mother and Mycroft. His father was out on business, as usual. He ate quickly. He had been called to dinner at the most inopportune moment in a delicate experiment, but knew that not going to dinner would have consequences more dire than a failed experiment. So he left the cultures he had been growing for over a week in the incubator, hoping against hope he would be finished in time to remove them before they over-matured.

He ate as quickly as he could without getting food onto his clothes or the table. He was sure to sit up straight even though leaning over and having his face closer to his plate would speed up the process. 

“SHERLOCK.” His mother snapped at him. He froze fork midair and mouth half open. “Don’t eat so fast, it’s disgusting. Chew your food and don’t let your fork make noise against the plate. People might think I starve you.” 

Without thinking he responded, “I’m sorry but I have and experiment going that will be ruined if I don’t get back to it, and-”

“Is this a project for school?” Sherlock knew it was over now. 

“No.” He replied miserably. 

“Then stop degrading yourself with such distasteful behavior. Since you can’t moderate yourself, from now on you will stay at the table until everyone has finished, understood?”

“Yes mummy.” Sherlock surrendered. 

The rest of the meal was spent in silence, and Sherlock mostly kept his eyes down to avoid looking at his mother who sat across the table. When he did look up, he could see that she did not hold her fork and that food was disappearing from her plate at a glacial pace. She was eating extra slowly to punish him. Mycroft was excused when his meal was finished. It would be hours before his mother ate the last bite of her meal. He sat silently looking down, not daring to ask if he could leave. She raked her eyes over him with disapproval and disappointment before finally saying. “Sherlock Holmes, you may be excused, I hope you remember this lesson.” 

\----

Sherlock lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Why were these memory coming up now, and why was his stomach hurting so much. It had to be a physical pain, right? This wasn’t just in his head. It couldn’t be, he would know. Wouldn’t he? It wasn’t like before. He had no desire to lose weight. He didn’t want to throw up. He didn’t want to go back to that place. And yet… His stomach felt like it was boiling, waves of nausea washed over his head. Forcing himself to remain in bed, to not go to the bathroom and vomit felt like being stuck in that chair, no physical bonds held him, just the paralyzing fear of his mother. 

He couldn’t stand it anymore. He was in the bathroom. The shower was running. He vomited until only bile came up. He didn’t use his fingers, he had been able to purge without any aid since before he went to Foundation Stone, though they did make it easier. This only made things more complicated. If he didn’t use his fingers, intentionality was harder to discern. Was the cause of the vomiting physical, mental, or both? Anxiety could cause the physical release of extra stomach acid which could cause stomach pain and nausea. Stomach pain and nausea brought back unpleasant memories of his eating disorder behaviors, which caused him anxiety. What was the chicken and what was the egg. Did it even matter? 

He returned to his bed exhausted and with a pounding headache, but he felt relieved and was able to sleep. It was no use trying to analyze his behaviors. He just knew it would be best to stick to shakes until whatever was going on with him had settled down.


	5. Shots Fired

For three days Sherlock had been replacing his meals with shakes. Liquids didn’t upset his stomach in the same way. He knew he would be able to keep them down, so he did not have to experience the anxiety and fear that whatever he was eating would be coming back up later. John noticed of course, how could he not when he and Sherlock usually ate most meals together. The first day, Sherlock explained his indigestion. John didn’t believe for a second that Sherlock's problems were purely physical, but the detective was allowed to anxious sometimes. If he needed a day to process, John would begrudgingly allow it. 

On the third day, John could no longer abide Sherlock's behavior. He cursed himself that he even let it start in the first place, he should have stopped this before it started even if it meant having a row. It was lunchtime and as Sherlock grabbed a shake John put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Sherlock come sit with me for lunch.” Sherlock sat across from John eyeing him warily. When John proceed to push a plate of grilled cheese and apple slices in front on the detective, Sherlock donned a tight lipped smile. “Thank you John, but I’m all set.” He said lifting up his shake. John sighed, he knew it wasn’t going to be this easy. 

“Sherlock we need to talk about this.” 

“We really don’t.” There was a dangerous edge to Sherlock’s voice. John knew he had to tread lightly.

“You’ve had nothing but shakes for three days, Sherlock.”

“I told you. My stomach has been hurting, and besides I’ve been meeting my caloric needs.” Sherlock was using his Holmes voice. The one he used with his brother when they were fighting. Polite and proper, but determined. 

“We both know there is more going on than indigestion, and you’re completely off of your meal plan.” John responded.

“I’m an adult, I can make my own decisions about what I do or do not eat.” 

“You have an eating disorder. It’s different for you.” John couldn’t keep the frustration out of his voice. 

“You are right. It is different for me. More complicated. More complicated than you could possibly understand.” Sherlock's raised his voice, his cool calm mask slipping, “I don’t know exactly what I am feeling, or how I am affected by my mother’s death. But I do know this. If I eat solid food. It. Will. Not. Stay. Down. So rather that putting myself through the horrible experience of vomiting three times a day, I’ve decided that what is best for me right now is to fulfill my nutritional needs with liquid food until I feel confident I can keep down solids! As a doctor you know that vomiting would be far worse!” Sherlock said, his voice getting louder with each sentence, until he was shouting. 

“You can’t live of shakes forever Sherlock! Yes vomiting is horrible for you, but you need to deal with your urges rather than just avoid them!” John was yelling now too. He knew it wasn’t helpful to yell, but he couldn’t help himself.

“It’s not for forever! I _am_ dealing with it, in my own way, and it’s none of your business. YOU ARE NOT MY KEEPER JOHN!” The detective bellowed.

“FINE!” John threw his hands up in the air as he stomped out of the kitchen. He grabbed Sherlock's bottle of Ativan from his room, and stomped back. “If it’s none of my business, I guess I shouldn’t be holding onto THESE.” He barked, slamming the bottle down on the table. “Maybe if you don’t have to let me know, you will actually use these to deal with your urges and eat, and not let this get any worse!” 

“Good.” Sherlock hissed out between his teeth grabbing the bottle, and walking to his bedroom. John put on his coat and left the apartment, slamming the door on his way out. 

It only took 15 minutes off walking before all of Johns anger had dissipated. That conversation definitely went worse than he had hoped. He kicked himself for giving Sherlock the Ativan. He had considered giving it to him before. He had held onto it originally given Sherlock's drug history and his still fragile state. But the last few years John would not have worried about Sherlock abusing the pills. John had stopped keeping the meds in a locked box ages ago. But now, when Sherlock was having some sort of relapse, was probably not the best time to hand the man a bottle of a controlled substance. At least the prescription was for 6 pills at a time, only three of which were left, not nearly enough to kill a man. Not that John thought Sherlock was suicidal, just that he might be looking for an escape from more than just an anxiety attack. Why wouldn’t Sherlock just trust him. Why couldn’t he see how dangerously he was behaving. This relapse was more than a blip, and things could get worse if he didn’t deal with it soon, much worse. 

Sherlock gripped the pill bottle tightly in his fist. He wanted to take all the pills, just to defy John. To prove that John did not know what was best for him. That John couldn’t control him. He wanted to hurt himself, and John wouldn’t be able to stop him. Nobody could control him. He could do whatever the fuck he wanted!

But he didn’t want to do those things. If he did he would have to admit that he was out of control. That what he was doing was getting out of hand. That what he was telling himself was helping him was a lie. That he was sick. That he would always be sick. He could be doing well, taking care of himself perfectly, feeling good, but that he would never be cured. This would always be with him. Always. 

\--------

He had been smoking a cigarette in the garden at the age of 14. The bullying had started as soon as he stopped being tutored and entered public school when he was 12. He was too strange, outspoken, and smart. He was bad at sports, a loner and the perfect target. He had just transferred to his third school. His mother had begged him to make things different this time. “Why can’t you just get along with the other boys? Just act normal, is that really so hard. I know you are smarter than the other kids, but you don’t need to flaunt it. Just don’t run your mouth all the time, that’s why they pick on you! You should really get into sport this time. You are too skinny anyway. Don’t you want to have friends like Mycroft? He was smarter than all the boys at his school, but he was able to act normal!” 

_Act_ was the perfect word. Mycroft was an excellent actor. Popular. Smiled at everyone, was well liked. But it didn’t stop him from being alone. None of those people could be his real friends because none of those people knew who he really was. He was just as alone as Sherlock was, he just got to avoid the bullying. 

Sherlock was just as good an actor, and after his first transfer he kept up the act for a few months. He didn’t get to be popular, he was still the new kid. But he could have gotten there. He just couldn’t stand the act. He wasn’t like Mycroft. He wasn’t willing to manipulate the whole world and hide who he was just to be accepted. And eventually he stopped acting, and it wasn’t long before the bullying started again. His mother finally agreed to another transfer when his wrist had been broken. He had just started his third school, and was keeping up the act again. He wasn’t sure how long it would last this time. 

He had just brought the cigarette up to his lips for another drag, when a bang rang out. His cigarette was torn from his fingers as bullet zipped by inches from his lips. He whipped around to see his mother on the other side of the garden with her hunting rifle. She, of course, had learned to shoot for the hunt. A true sport for the elite society she was so proud to be a part of.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Sherlock screamed, as she marched up to him. He had never swore in _front_ of his mother before, let alone _at_ her. 

“Sherlock Holmes! How dare you! I told you not to smoke. How could you defy me?!”

Sherlock stared at her mouth agape. “You could have killed me!” 

“Please. I am a perfect shot, you were perfectly safe.”

“Are you crazy? What if I had sneezed, what if I had moved!?”

“I cannot believe you are speaking to me this way! You are totally overreacting. You didn’t learn your lesson on smoking the first time round, so I decided you needed a lesson that might have more of an impact.” She said. How could she be so calm. “Now, go to your room! And if I hear you use language like that again you will regret it.” 

Sherlock shook his head is disbelief. This was the craziest thing his mother had ever done. Sure she could be cruel. She would humiliate him, taunt him, and cut him down until he submitted to her will. But, the next day she would always apologize, give him hugs and kisses, as though she loved him like a mother should. She just wanted what was best for him, she would say. For him to grow up into a man who would prosper. She played the good cop to her own bad. And Sherlock would forgive her, believe that she really did love him, that she was really doing what she thought was best for him. He had tried desperately to be who she wanted. He yearned for her love, for her acceptance and approval. But this time was something else. 

As she locked him into his room, he knew that she didn’t want what was best or him. She wanted what was best for her. She wanted a perfect son, because if her son wasn’t perfect that would mean she was not a perfect mother. And she could not risk the judgement of her high society friends. He resolved to no longer grovel for her love, but the next day when she came to apologize, when she hugged him, he couldn’t help but forgive her. 


	6. Rumors

Seven days. Seven days went by with John waiting for the right moment to re-engage Sherlock. Seven days Sherlock avoided him, if not physically, emotionally. They would talk, about cases or superficial things, anytime the conversation would stray even minutely into the personal or emotional. Sherlock would hastily change the subject or find something that he needed to get to immediately. Each day John's frustration with Sherlock grew. On the fourth day Sherlock went to the reading of his mother's will. When he returned looking retched, they did not talk about it. John found himself staring at Sherlock, did he look thinner? Could he have lost weight already? Or was John just being paranoid. 

\---------

Sherlock was 17 and reading about the advanced decomposition of the eyeball when his mother called him to the sitting room.

“Mummy.” He said in greeting, knowing the best way to survive a conversation with his mother was to let her start it.

“I’ve just come back from a meeting with your headmaster.” This couldn’t be good. 

“Oh?” He replied. Keep it short. Anything he said could and would be used against him.

“He said that you are still being bullied. Is that true?”

“Yes, but it’s not terrible. Just verbal.” No use denying it when he wasn’t sure what she was getting at. He couldn’t know yet if the truth or a lie would get him into more trouble so he might as well tell the truth. Well close to the truth, being shoved and tripped didn't really count, right?

“He said that your being bullied because there are rumors about you being a homosexual. Is _this_ true?”

“They do spread rumors about that.” He said carefully. It wasn’t a lie. He did not like where this was going.

“Are the _rumors_ true?” Sherlock’s felt a stab in his stomach. He didn’t even know if they were true or not. He blocked any thought of sexuality from his mind, knowing that if he didn’t things at school could get even messier than they already were. 

“Does it matter?” He replied, flustered. Why the hell had he said that? He knew that was the wrong answer. 

“Are. The. Rumors. True. Sherlock?” She repeated. Her eyes flashed with anger but her voice remained calm. 

“No.” He said hastily. Right answer. His mother smiled and leaned back in her chair. “Thank goodness. Not that homosexuals are all deviants or anything, my hairdresser is one. But _you_ need to be normal. Mycroft is clearly the business minded one of the two of you, and may he not have time to have a family, so you will have to produce the heir.”

Sherlock felt like he might throw up. His mother continued. “It’s the least you can do for the family. It’s not like chemistry holds any prestige. Probably best if you weren’t to involved in the rearing though, you know how you are. We will just have to make sure the mother is suitable.”

He seriously might barf right there, on his mother’s favorite carpet, at least then he wouldn’t live long enough to act out his mother's plan. She looked Sherlock over approvingly before saying, “You need to eat more. Gain some weight, no woman will look at you if you are so scrawny. And I'm scheduling you a haircut, I can’t believe we’ve let it grow this long. It’s much to feminine.” Sherlock Just nodded, waiting for her to utter the magic words. “You may be excused, Sherlock.” 

He walked out of the room as calmly as possible, but once out of his mother’s sight he ran to his bathroom and puked. This wasn’t the first time a conversation with his mother had ended with him in the bathroom with his fingers down his throat, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

He stood and washed his face before looking into the mirror. His hair _had_ gotten quite long. He remembered when he was a child and would see his mother without makeup in the morning. He looked just like she had back then.


	7. The Seventh Day

It was the seventh day of shakes when Sherlock caught John staring at him once again. “What!” The detective snapped. 

“What?” John said back, nonchalantly.

“You keep staring at me and frowning.” 

“Well, I’m worried about you. You still aren’t eating! You need to get back on your meal plan.” John thanked god that this time he hadn’t had to bring it up and force it into conversation. Maybe this time it would be better. 

“I told you I’m dealing with it, and I’m getting the calories, I'm not starving myself.”

“Like hell you aren’t! You need 8 shakes a day to meet your caloric goals, not 2 or 3!”

Sherlock stiffened. John shouldn’t know how many shakes Sherlock was drinking. He kept packs in his room as well as the fridge and often drank those. The only way John could know was...

“You’ve been going through the trash to count bottles.” Sherlock's voice came out quite and venomous, a statement not a question. John shifted uncomfortably. Hadn’t meant to give that away. Not that he thought he was in the wrong, but he knew that it would upset Sherlock.

“Yes I have. I’m worried about you!” 

“You invaded my privacy when I made it clear that I didn’t want your involvement.”

“I’m not going to respect your privacy when you are hurting yourself!”

“Then you should have talked to me like an adult rather than spying on me behind my back!” Sherlock spat. 

“I would, but every time I try and talk to you, you just yell at me!” John shouted back. 

“When you try and _talk_ to me? You don’t _talk_ to me, you accuse me. You reprimand me. And you yell at me when I don’t give you the answers you want to hear! You get angry at me when I refuse to give you full access to my thoughts and feelings. You get angry at me when I don’t do things the way you want me too! You don’t know what’s best for me! I DON’T NEED YOU TO BE MY MOTHER!” Sherlock bellowed. 

The silence that fell after was deafening. For a moment both men were frozen. Sherlock with a look of horror on his face. He couldn’t believe he had just said that. He hadn’t even been thinking it before it came out. And John felt like he had just been slapped in the face. That last bit. Boy was that not what John had been expecting. Then the moment broke, Sherlock turned and fled the room slamming his bedroom door behind him. 

John flopped onto the couch and scrubbed his hands over his face. Maybe Sherlock was wrong when it came to how he was dealing with his eating disorder, but he was right about John. About John’s anger. Sherlock was defensive and frustrating but yelling at him and becoming angry when he wouldn’t open up wasn’t right. John didn’t have a right to Sherlock’s thoughts and feelings. He wasn’t a therapist, he wouldn’t know what to do with Sherlock's feelings even if the detective had shared them. And Sherlock wasn't stupid, by the time John knew anything about the detectives life, the man was likely to have scrutinized it from every angle. In denial maybe, but definitely not stupid. John was just so scared. Scared that he would lose his friend again, and not just for a year or two this time, but permanently. He knew this was nothing compared to how bad things had been last time. But god had things been bad. Sherlock had been so close to death. It was hard to even think about it now. 

There was a little knock on the door and Ms. Hudson poked her head in. “Is everything alright, I heard you two shouting.” She said in a worried voice. 

“Not exactly. Sherlock's mother just died… He’s not handling it well ” John sighed. 

“Oh dear how horrible… Looks like its been hard on you as well as him.”

“I suppose it has.”

“Would you like to come down for a cup of tea?” She asked. John gratefully accepted. He needed to get out of the apartment, and he should probably give Sherlock some space after what had just happened. 

\------

When he lived with his mother Sherlock had hated vomiting. But he also loved it. It was messy and painful, but the relief was wonderful. It was better than cigarettes. It was better than the weed he had pinched off a classmate while they were slamming him into a locker. It was the best thing he had tried... until he tried cocaine in his freshman year of college. 

Then, cocaine was the best thing he had tried. Until he tried heroine. When it came to pain relief heroine was the best thing there was, and Sherlock knew he had to be careful, or it might be taken away from him. And he was careful, and it wasn’t until a year after he graduated that he slipped up. It was a new batch, and he should have tried a smaller dose to test it, but he didn’t take the precaution and suddenly his lungs stopped working quite like they should.

He regained consciousness and could feel the hospital sheets on his skin, and hear his brother’s breathing beside him. He tried to sit up, but he couldn’t move to even open his eyes or speak. It was like a blanket of lead covered every inch of his body. He kept fading in and out of sleep, and then he heard the door open and his mothers’ voice. “Mycroft! I couldn’t believe it. Is he going to be alright?” She cried. Sherlock heard the rustling of fabric as Mycroft stood to hug her. “They think so mummy, but he still hasn’t woken up yet.” Sherlock wanted to open his eyes now. He wanted to sit up and tell them to leave. He didn’t want his mother here. He couldn’t move though, he could let out a tiny moan, that neither of his guests noticed. 

“Mummy, I’m glad you are here. I’ve been with him since I heard, but I haven’t gotten anything to eat in hours, can you stay for a bit in case he wakes up? We can talk when I get back.” Mycroft asked. Sherlock screamed internally. Mycroft should have known that Sherlock wouldn’t want his mother there. They had never discussed it, but Mycroft was aware of Sherlock and his mother’s relationship. He had been there for much of it. He knew that Sherlock wanted only to escape her grasp when he left for university, and now he was leaving Sherlock in her clutches while he was totally defenseless. 

His mother sat in the chair beside him and held his hand. “My baby boy,” his mother whispered, “My sweet sweet boy. How could you do this to yourself. How could you hurt so much.” This was not the voice Sherlock was used to. He could barely remember this voice. The voice that his mother had used long ago when he was so little that she could throw him up into the air and catch him, when he was still perfect in her eyes, when he could be sure that she loved him. And here it was again. When she thought he couldn’t hear her. “I love you Sherlock. Please don’t leave us. I wish I could make all the hurt go away.” She was crying now. “I tried so hard to make you into someone that could do well in the world and be happy, but I never could. Could I?” 

“No! you made me unhappy!” Sherlock thought, “You were cruel to me! How could you have possibly thought that would make me happy?!” He wanted to scream, but all he could do was listen. 

“I know I wasn’t always a good mother, but I do love you. I’ll always love you, so please please don’t leave us Sherlock.” Sherlock desperately tried to remain conscious.

“Why couldn’t you show me that you loved me then!” Sherlock said in his head willing his lips to move. “Why can’t you show me now when I’m awake. All I ever wanted from you was for you to love me! And you can only tell me now that I’ve almost died and you think I can’t hear? Why!?” But he was fading out again before he could make his mouth obey his brain. 

When he woke up for real, she was gone and Mycroft was asleep in the chair by his bed. Maybe he had dreamed it. Sherlock tried to sit up and let out a massive groan, which woke Mycroft. 

“Sherlock, you’re finally awake. Thank goodness.” Mycroft said sleepily. 

“Has mother been here?” Sherlock asked. Mycroft looked at him a bit puzzled, it wasn’t the first thing he expected his brother to ask upon waking up from and overdose. 

“Yes she was. Last night when you were still unconscious.” He responded.

“Where is she now?”

“She left. She had a trip to Oslo planned, and when it was clear you were going to pull through she decided that she would go.”

“Of course.” Sherlock said. He wasn’t sure what he had expected. 


	8. Letting it Out

John didn’t return to the apartment until the evening. The dusk had done nothing to take the edge off another blisteringly hot day. The apartment was quite, but Sherlock's shoes still stood by the door, so John knew the man was home. It was time to sort things out. 

This time John was determined not to get angry no matter how angry Sherlock was with him. John took a deep breath, and knocked gently on Sherlock’s door. He heard a gentle “Come in,” and opened it. Sherlock was sitting in his window nook, feet pulled up onto the seat. He was only wearing boxers, which made sense given the heat, but John realized that it was the first time he had seen the detective without long clothes on since his mother had died. Sherlock was facing away from John and smoking a cigarette out the window. Beside him several burnt ends lined the bottom of an empty glass. 

John walked over to the window seat and stood awkwardly by its side. “You can sit if you like.” Sherlock said. He sounded calm now. Sounded tired. John sat across from Sherlock pulling his feet up as well so that their toes almost touched. It was quiet for a moment, before John began to speak. 

“I’m sorry about how I’ve been treating you. You’re right that I invaded your privacy, and I was wrong to be angry at you. I started straight in accusing you and reprimanding you. I should have just asked how you were doing.”

“I’m sorry also John. Even though you didn’t handle things well, I do know you were just trying to help. Much of my anger at you isn’t really about you at all.” Sherlock replied still staring distantly out the window.

“Do you want to talk about it?” John asked, and was a bit surprised when the detective said, “Yes.” Then things fell quiet again. Sherlock took another long drag on his cigarette and blew smoke out the window. 

“Do you want to tell me about her?” John asked softly. 

“My mother?” Sherlock said turning his gaze away from the window. John nodded. Sherlock sighed. 

“My mother was controlling and unkind to me. She withheld her love, and at times was quite cruel... I couldn’t be the son she wanted and she punished me for it.” Sherlock turned his gaze back to the window, and took another drag on his cigarette. “And do you want to know the worst part?” he paused to blow out the smoke, “I think she did actually love me.” John nodded again, to show he was listening and to encourage Sherlock to say more. “My whole childhood I was desperate for her love and approval and all she showed me was disdain and disappointment. The only time I ever heard he say she loved me, she thought I was unconscious. I don’t know why she wasn’t capable of showing me love when it actually mattered.” He continued.

“I think the ways in which I was different from her scared her. I think she thought of me as some extension of herself and the fact that I wasn’t the way she wanted me to be made her feel out of control. Which only made her more controlling of me. Even now, even now that she is dead she is still trying to control me. My inheritance can only be paid out in installments, under the condition that I pass regular random drug tests. Which I refuse to do.” Sherlock said bitterly. 

“Why not?” John asked, “You’ve been clean for years.”

“Because, I don’t want her to have any say in what I do with my life!” Sherlock said exasperatedly. “I stay clean, I’m  _ going  _ to stay clean for  _ myself _ . My sobriety is mine. My mother doesn’t get to be a part of it.” Sherlock spat out, clearly angry. “That woman hasn’t known me for most of my life.” Sherlock sighed, his voice returning to a normal volume. He turned to face the window again. “We have barely spoken since I ODed in graduate school. It’s been years now. When she had her first heart attack I thought about trying to reconnect. It was a year and a half after I left Foundation Stone. Part of me wanted to show her how far I had come, that I wasn’t the broken boy she had left in the hospital years ago. But part of me knew that no matter how much better I was, I wasn’t better in the ways she wanted me to be. I wanted to believe that I could face her and her opinion of me wouldn’t matter, but I knew deep down that that wasn’t true. And even if she had accepted me, was finally proud of me, she would really have just been proud of herself. Proud that her project had finally turned out right. I didn’t want to give her that satisfaction. I’m better in spite of her not because of her.”

“When I saw her number on my phone, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to answer it, but if she was reaching out to  _ me  _ maybe that meant things were going to be different. But she wasn’t reaching out to me, she never reached out to me. She never apologize for how she treated me, she never said any of the things that could have started to heal things. And I never got the chance to tell her how I felt. I never got to stand up for myself, stand up for who I was as a child and tell her that what she had done was wrong. And now I am so angry. I’m so angry at her for not loving me in the way I needed her to. And that she’s dead now and she will never say that she was proud of me.” Sherlock ran out of breath. He took a drag, and puffed out the window, and was quite. 

“You’ve never really talked about her much. I didn’t know how much she affected you.” John replied after considering everything that Sherlock said. 

“I didn’t realize either until she died... I always figured the abuse I suffered from my classmates was far worse than anything she ever did to me. She never hurt me physically.” Sherlock let out a harsh laugh. “Though, you know one time she shot a cigarette right out of my hand.”

“With a gun?!” John said in shock. 

“With a gun.” Sherlock confirmed. 

“Christ Sherlock.”

“She was a perfect shot… It didn’t hurt me nearly as much as some of the other things she did.” Sherlock’s cigarette was down to its filter. Sherlock dropped it into the cup with distaste. “Never did learn my lesson about smoking i guess." He sighed. "All of this, I hate that it brought back my eating disorder behaviors, I hate that after all this time, she can still hurt me.” They sat in silence for a minute.

Sherlock spoke up again. “So much of my childhood, my mental illness, my recovery, is about control. Having it and not having it. So when you try and tell me what is best for me, try and force me to behave the way you want, even if that way  _ is _ healthier. It makes me angry, it makes me want to push back… Last time I needed you to help me get better, but now I need for you to let me do this myself. I know this last week and half I haven’t done a good job of taking care of myself, but I’m not going to let it go on any further. I don’t want to be your patient, I don’t want you to be my doctor. I want you to be my friend, and I need you to trust me when I say I can get better without your help.” 

John’s chest hurt, he didn’t want to be Sherlock’s doctor either, he wanted to trust him, but he wasn’t sure if he could overcome his fear of Sherlock’s eating disorder. “I’m sorry Sherlock, but I’m not sure I can do that.”

“I know.” Sherlock replied. “That’s why I'm leaving.”

“What!? What do you mean you are leaving? Where are you going?” John couldn’t stand it if Sherlock left now. If their friendship dissolved over this. He needed Sherlock, he cared about him, it was why he acted the way he had in the first place.

“I’m going to go stay with Alex for a while. I was making plans with her on the phone while you were at missus Hudson's.” Sherlock replied, and John let out an internal sigh of relief. He still hated that his actions were driving Sherlock away, but it was just for a while.

“How long will you be away?” John asked. 

“I don’t know, as long as it takes.” Sherlock replied. 

“Can I visit you?”

“Of course… though maybe not right away.”

“I’m sorry that you feel like you need to leave.” 

“It’s mostly not your fault.”

“I’ll miss you Sherlock.”

“I know. I’ll miss you too John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of this story. Don't worry Sherlock gets back on the wagon. I may write more about that and add it to the series soon.


End file.
